


What's Left for Us

by ByJoveWhatASpend



Series: What's Left [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cannibalism, Disabled Character, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22224637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByJoveWhatASpend/pseuds/ByJoveWhatASpend
Summary: The Dreadnought or the Chargers.There wasn’t really much of a choice, when it came down to it.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Iron Bull, Sten/Female Tabris, Sten/Female Warden, sten/skinner
Series: What's Left [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599751
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

The Dreadnaught or the Chargers.

There wasn’t really much of a choice, when it came down to it. It felt like a choice, it sounded like a choice, and when Lavellan turned to him with terrified eyes, looking to him for answers, the intention was for The Iron Bull to choose for him.

Sacrifice the Dreadnaught, all the qunari soldiers in the hull, the Arishok who had only agreed to the alliance with the Inquisition because of Skinners place within it and Bulls promises that the Inquisition was a worthy cause.

Sacrifice the Chargers, a ragtag group of mercenaries with nothing to go back to, who risked their lives daily for gold, brought together only by their ability to follow The Iron Bulls leadership.

Sacrifice Skinner, the legendary folk-hero of Ferelden, ender of the Blight and holder of so much political sway and adoration that even a decade after faking her own death the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste were looking to her for guidance in taking down a God.

“Hissrad!” Gatt snapped, his narrow face lined with strain, his flat teeth bared. It had been many years since Seheron but Gatt’s teeth where so much shorter than they used to be. He must have kept grinding them in his sleep, through the constant nightmares, the stress of his job. The Qun clearly did not give Gatt peace. “Hissrad, you can not call them off! They have to hold their position or the Arishok will die! You will be a traitor to the Qun!”

The warhorn is light in his hand, almost brittle despite that it had held up well for years. It was made from just the tip of a dragons horn, the first one he ever killed, alongside his Chargers. Skinner, Gatt, Rocky, Dalish, Stitches, Grim. Stitches was held up in Skyhold, tirelessly working to heal and protect the inquisition, and Grim long missing, presumed dead.

Sacrifice Krem, his second in command, his best friend, who had run to the south to avoid the tyrannical and abusive Tevinter empire, who was the best soldier and best man The Iron Bull had ever cared associate himself with.

Lavellan’s fingers wrapped around the horn in The Iron Bulls hand. He was carrying half the weight of it, easing the burden. Or was he trying to lift it away, towards his own face? Take the choice away?

“Bull..!” His voice was quiet, his huge elfy eyes red but dry. He wanted to save the Chargers. He would sacrifice the unknown power of the alliance with the Qunari, would sacrifice the aid of a foreign army of people The Iron Bull had often warned him would destroy the south entirely if given half a chance. He was following the advice The Iron Bull had always given him. Think of the long game. The longest possible game that Basil Lavellan was capable of envisioning was the Inquisition welcoming a foreign army onto Fereldan lands, into his castle, and around his friends and allies, at the price of sacrificing people Basil already new, trusted, and cared for. “They can’t handle that many mages alone.”

The short game, though, had the Arishok, formally Sten of the Beresaad, arriving to reunite with his former commander, the only reason he had come to the south at all, and finding her dead by the Inquisitors command.

The short game was sacrificing the Arishok and being branded Tal-Vashoth, becoming enemy to the Qunari, to having a bounty on Lavellans head from the one man in Thedas that The Iron Bull could not protect him from.

There was no easy answer, but there was only one choice.

The Iron Bull lifted his warhorn in front of him, between both hands

and snapped it in half.

The world goes silent around his ears as he watches the pieces fall. Time slows down and there is an instinct to grab them up. If he can grab them before they hit the rocks, before they roll, before they tumble over the cliff face, then maybe The Chargers won't be lost. Lavellans hands clutch at Bulls arm, clinging.

The horn shards strike stone just as the first trees catch fire.


	2. Chapter 2

The Arishok is understanding and that makes it worse. If Bull wanted resentment, grief, or rage then he would have to wait until he returned to Skyhold. If he needed relief or gratitude from his people, fifty-strong and grim faced as they scoured the grass an organized grid, then he should have been born to different kin.

“You did the right thing.” The Arishok tells him as a call goes up along the line. Solas hurries into the grass, ducking out of sight for a moment, before the crackling green lightning lifts another blackened bundle from the earth. Bull thinks that it is probably Rocky. The body is set next to the pale pieces of Dalish, bloodless and nearly glowing in the singed grass.

“I know.” Bull says, and wishes that this responsibility hadn’t been his. He is glad, still, that it hadn’t been the Inquisitors.

He wants to say he’s sorry, but the impulse is too Southern for Seheron. 

“I'm sorry.” Says Lavellan instead. 

Bull had warned him not to take responsibility, grabbing his shoulders tight when it became clear that they could not make it to the bodies before the ship would dock. He’d thought the Arishok might take out his grief on the one who made the call, had imagined having to turn his back on his people to protect Lavellan after everything he had just sacrificed, but that instinct was Southern as well. 

The Arishok had seemed to know it as soon as he stepped out of the ship, eyes scanning the group quickly for one person in particular as the smell of smoke wafted down to them on the breeze. “Where”, he had asked, and the Inquisitor himself had run ahead, leading the small army of Qunari like a hound.

Too late, though.

Iron Bull and the Arishok walked at the back with the personal guards, the two of them wise enough to know better.

Another call, a different tone. Bull’s heart pounds as the soldier comes around a tree with someone wrapped over their shoulders.

He thinks that it is Skinner, dark hair and small bodied, but he has hardly taken a step before he stops, realizing instead that it is Krem, blood in his hair and without his armour. There is a moment of disappointment, plummeting stomach, before his heart leaps at the realization that  _ Krem is alive.  _

He nearly runs then, but the Arishok has not dismissed him. He watches, instead, straining his ears to hear what Solas is saying, to hear if Krem is answering back. He is so focused on that he hardly notices Varric coming up behind him until he is only a few feet away. The hand that touches his wrist does come as a surprise though, and he tears his eyes away to look back.

“Found Gatt.” he says, his voice quietly casual, clearly unsure of how Bull is handling this. “Frozen. Easy way to go, I hear. You just fall asleep.”

“From a blizzard maybe. From a mage, I'm not so sure.” his voice is dull to his own ears, and he gulps thickly, the air itself foul, tainted still with the buzz of spells heavy on his dry lips. He hopes the lions share of it belongs to Solas’ healing magic, but he isn’t sure. 

“Go check on your human.” The Arishok says, and the both of them know that only Skinner is left unaccounted for. That were there much left of her then it would have been found by now. “I will discuss the terms of the alliance with your elf.”

Bull doubts Lavellan is in a good emotional place for that but he only nods. 

Solas is bent over Krem, glowing palms pressed to his shoulder and chest with an intense expression of concentration. He doesn't seem to notice one more pair of eyes when he is already surrounded by three of the Arishok's guards. Krem notices though, and lets out a raspy laugh, followed quickly by a contorted, silent wince. “Chest hurts.” he gasps, voice low and wet, but he was upright and conscious which ought to be enough for Solas to work with.

“He will survive.” Solas’ voice has little inflection or warmth in it, but even so Iron Bull feels like the luckiest son of a bitch in Fereldan. “It’s not so bad as it looks.”

“It feels awful.” Krem grumbled, and Bull can see that the blood on his face is largely dry, and that he isnt singed or frostbitten anywhere visible. “Threw me… into the air. High as a bird. Then back down..” He hissed as he lifted his left hand. “They popped my bloody fingernail off.”

“Im glad youre okay.” The Iron Bull smiles at him and Krem smiles back, red spit an a newly chipped tooth but overall whole.  _ Alive _ . 

Krem lifted his hand again, like he wanted to hold Bull’s, but stopped midway to look at it instead. “Oh hell.” he mumbled. “They popped my bloody fingernail off.”

“His head--” Bull looked to Solas with alarm but the mage only nodded.

“I know, hes said it five times now.” he muttered. “I’ve mended the break in his skull but he will be confused for some time yet.”

“I’m fine.” Krem said, and Bull forced himself to believe it. “Just a little…”   
  


He seemed to lose track of the thought as he caught sight of his hand again and Bull spoke quickly. “Do you know where everyone was, Krem? Did you see Skinner?”   
  
“Rocky is dead.” Krem went to shake his head, then seemed to think better of it. “Everyone.. I didnt see…”   
  
“It’s okay, Krem. You rest, we’ve got this from here.”   
  
“You got it, Chief.”

A cry went up from the side of the cliff and Bull felt sick as he knew what it meant. He got up, the creak in his knee feeling worse than ever, and tried not to limp as he headed towards the qunari leaning over the edge.

“Skinner?” He asked, knowing already but not prepared to look himself.

The qunari didnt bother answering, holding out his hand. Bull took it and then braced himself to help him down over the edge. 

_ Dont look dont look- _

She was two ledges down but even at that distance the smell of burned flesh was overpowering. Not just flesh of course hair and leather and grass, but the flesh was the strongest odor, the one that tapped into the part of his brain that would forever be in sweating the stinking heat of Seheron. 

The sten released his hand, dropping nimbly onto a ledge and making his way down to her-- to her body. He realized he would have to take her-- take it out of the stens arms when he passed it up. A part of him revolted at the idea but he squashed it down, bracing himself on his knee as he watched his fellow qunari step nimbly beside her, bend to gather her up--

“ _ She lives _ !” 

She lived?

“She lives!” The call went up from beside him, his fellow qunari who he had hardly noticed, and it rippled out behind him further, carrying along the line. The Iron Bull felt a hand, large and warm, on his shoulder, and he let it pull him away, stepping to the side as the Arishok took his place. 

Skinner’s body--  _ Skinner  _ was lifted over the edge, thin and small and still smoking, multiple hands reaching for her, lifting her up and over. He thought that the arishok would take her but no-- she was laid in the grass, still and silent but for the shallow, rattling breath in her chest.

Solas knelt at her side now and the air grew cold with his magic, frost blue to stop the still creeping embers as they crawled across her face, sickly green healing pressed to her chest. At his murmured instructions one of the qunari bent to peel the leathers from her body, revealing charred and ruined skin, black and crackling beneath their fingers like dry leaves, still smoking. Despite the pain it must have caused but Skinner did not move, did not blink.

Her good eye was milky blue and her bad one sightlessly staring upwards. She had always joked that her scars were her pretty side, and he hopes suddenly, fervently, that she had believed that. 

“Will she live?” it wasn't the Bull who asked in that quiet, wavering voice, full of hope, but the Arishok.

The apostate didnt answer for long seconds, his mouth opening but making no sound, searching for words. He cut his eyes away briefly to Bull, as if somehow  _ he  _ could know, before finally giving a hesitant nod. “Yes I… believe so. She will live but-”

“She will live.” The arishok said with a note of finality, as thought that were all that mattered, as though the new skin that was coming in with Solas’ healing wasn't angry shiny and red in a way Bull doubted would ever lighten. 

He wanted to argue, to ask Solas if he truly believed healing magic would be enough, if it werent better to let her pass painlessly in her sleep rather than forcibly tether her to this world. He wanted to ask if being alive was  _ enough- _

But as Solas rolled her onto her good side, inspecting the burns on her back, her hand fell into the Arishoks lap, and Bull realized for the first time that he was on his knees, there, kneeling on the ground beside her, head bowed and just as intent as Solas as he watched her. He wrapped his hand around hers, so delicate like it might crumble away inside his grip, and he knew that the Arishok would not want her to suffer unduly. 

A voice, so quiet and unfamiliar that the Iron Bull hardly recognized it as a voice at all, whispered one word. “ _ Sten.” _

Skinner-- Tabris, the Warden Commander, Hero of Fereldan, would live.

And that was that.


	3. Chapter 3

She feels like she is awake for every moment of it, but when she is able to form the words to speak, lips cracked and stiff, throat burning, they tell her she has slept for days.

It must be true because when she is aware enough of her surroundings to truly take them in she finds herself in the healers tower, body wrapped stiff and snug beneath a worn old blanket.The bed beside her houses a loudly snoring Krem, but she is otherwise alone. Her first thought, dull and unsubstantial through the fog of her mind, is that she has never heard him snore so loudly before, and her second thought is  _ why is there bandaging over my good eye? _

Irrationally, she has a terrified moment where she thinks she must be entirely blind now, that she will be trapped in this bed for the rest of her life, an invalid, useless to the company and the inquisition, seeing only in her darkspawn dreams. Before the panic can take her, though, she realizes that the spots in her vision are lights, the glow of a healers candle as she walks slowly along the far wall, scratching something onto a scroll. 

Tabris does not know her and so she waits impatiently while she does her rounds, doing her best to stay awake. She may lose consciousness for a moment or two though, because she startles awake when she hears the crunch of boot at her bedside.

The healer startles much worse upon seeing her eyes ( _ eye _ ) open, accidentally knocking the candle from her writing pad and having to quickly step on it in case it caught fire to the prickly hay covering the dirt floor. “Maker!” hisses the woman, a ruddy blush covering her face, and Tabris discovers that smirking hurts terribly. “Forgive me, ser, i didn’t know you had woken.” 

“Pain potion, please.” her voice is ghostly and thick, dry as paper, but the Healer understands. Rather than help her sit up to keep from choking, the woman instead drizzles the potion over a wadded up cloth and presses that to Tabris’ tongue, telling her to suckle on it. 

“Better the slow way then the painful way.” she says as Tabris tries not to feel terribly offended. 

It takes several minutes for Tabris to finish the bottle, resenting what was left behind on the cloth each time it is re-soaked, but soon enough she feels the magical properties of the tonic working and relaxes back into the bed. 

“You seem more awake this time.” Says the healer, carefully sitting on the edge of her bed. The straw mattress doesnt shift an inch, which, along with the exhaustion weighing her down, is the only thing keeping Tabris from snapping at her to leave. “Healer Stitches was worried. Do you remember what happened?”   
  
Tabris tries to glare at the human with her one visible eye, but the effect seems to be lost on her. She looks away instead, to the dancing torch at the end of the room. “Tevinter.” she rasps, barely more than a whisper, only because she doesn't have the strength to speak any louder. “A fire. All of it, I think.” 

She closes her eyes for only a moment but when she opens them again the human has another candle and is checking on Krem. Tabris clears her throat ( _ horrifically painful, instantly regrettable _ ) but the woman doesnt startle quite as badly this time. “Oh love, you just missed your oxman.” She whispers, moving closer. “Let me bring you your potion.”   
  
Tabris chooses not to ask how much time has passed, deciding that it would be a waste of her apparently limited time. When the bit of stained cloth has been pulled from her lips again she smacks them together, trying to pull to mind what is most important. “The Inquisitor?”   
  
“Away on business.” she says with a reassuring smile. “Safe and well as he can be, I reckon.”   
  
She thinks she knows the answer, but asks anyway. “The Chargers?” 

“Just you and Ser Krem I’m afraid.”

“And Bull. And Stitches.” Krems' voice is thick with sleep and not nearly as quiet as theirs had been. Tabris’ face breaks into a smile and she is reminded of how much it hurts to do so. He pushes himself slowly and gingerly up on the bed, smiling his fox-like grin at her, eyes creasing charmingly at the corners. “Glad to see you back, Skinner.”

It turns out that crying hurts too, but not nearly so much as the straw pressing into the new skin of her hands, or the bone crushing hug that the two of them share. If Tabris happens to pass out from the pain, when she wakes again later in a bed which has been moved within reach of the again-snoring Krem, she thinks that its worth it.

**XXXX**

  
  


It takes her a few more tries, but eventually she manages to wake up with her hand cradled gently in someone else's. 

The hand is huge and warm, with long nails scratching gently over the back of her knuckles and calousses so thick that they even rival Bulls.

She had never held Stens hand in her life, but she knows, instantly, that it is him.

“The alliance?” she whispered, because she knows that it is important, important to the Inquisition, to Bull, to her own possible future with Sten. No matter what he had written in his letters, Sten has responsibilities to the Qun that Skinner couldn’t stand in the way of.

It takes him a moment to respond, and she thinks he might not have heard her, licking her lips to try again, but he takes her shoulder gently and rolls her on to her back, looking her in the eye for the first time in a decade.

He looks healthier than she remembers. Leaner, though, around the cheeks and mouth. She suspects there is no one in Par Vollen to slip him sweets, but the sun has brought his skin to a shining bronze and has hair has grown past his shoulders, though at the crown it still sits in the same tight braids she remembers.

“Kadan.” he whispers, and his voice is the same, exactly the same, gravelly and quiet, older than his face by decades. The simple word sends a sob through her chest, up her throat, and she catches it with her teeth, blinking away tears, her body lurching against the rough mattress as she starts to shake.

He had called her that before. She remembers now, on that final night before he left. He had looked exhausted, still bruised and tired, but he had smiled at her, a small tilting of his lips, affection shining in his purple eyes for her. She had looked away then but she can't do so now. She laughs instead, lifting her hand to his cheek. The skin of her hand is oddly red, and the prickle of his stubble is overly sharp against it, but is prepared for it. “You grew a beard.” she whispered, voicing choking on a laugh. “It's terrible.”

He smiles for her again, and she blinks away tears. “I’ll shave it.” he says, holding her hand gently in his, and she sees that the claws are gauntlets, sharp red things stretching back over his wrist. His shoulders were wide, covered with massive red leather pauldrons. 

“You look so different.” She smiles, and the red of her hand seems to glow in the corner of her vision. Her cheeks hurt, stiff and painful, hot in the cool air of the room. “I guess I do too.” she snuffles once, ugly and wet, but Sten doesn't look away for a moment. “Maker, this is-- Im not--”

“I would know you anywhere, Kadan.” Sten tells her, turning his face to press his lips against her red palm. “Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She wants to say that she has slept enough, that she wants to talk, that she missed him, that she loved--  _ loves  _ him--

“I know.” He tells her, and she slips under again, dreaming of him.


	4. Chapter 4

  
  


When Tabris enters the fade, it always looks like her father's little house in the alienage.

  
  


Its a memory this time-- she is young, sitting at the table near the fire. Her mother is there, drawn and tired, watching her with such exhaustion that its a wonder she can sit up at all. “You have to eat, dah’len.” she says, so quietly Tabris can hardly hear her over her own sobs. “We must be strong.”

Tabris cant make herself eat it though. She is 4, maybe, or a year or so older, and this years winter has been miserable. Father has gone away for the winter, as he always does, tending to him human employer at the mans second home further north. Father said they were lucky, that his employer was kind to take him with him, that when he comes back in the spring there will be plenty of food and money for the three of them, not to mention those hungry neighbors that alway came to their little table.

But the food father left behind was gone, and for days now Tabris has eaten only thin gruel. She hates it, and whatever she does not eat her mother will eat in secret.

Tonight Tabris knows she would be hungry, even if she could make herself eat it all. There isnt enough for them both, even if she goes hungry. She doesn’t want, she cant have it, and all she can do to express that is to cry.

Her mother tries a few more times to cajole her into eating, forgotten words but Tabris remembers the tone, the desperate attempt to sound warm while her voice cracked, and all Tabris could do was cry harder and shake her head.

Her mother leaves the table then, and when she comes back her eyes are dark and her lips red. “Here, dah’len.” she says, holding out the wooden comb father had carved for her, with its rounded handle and pretty etched-in flowers, the likes of which Tabris had never seen. “Brush my hair for me. “

She does it, remembering that it took a great deal of work, badly tangled as they worked together to loosen it from the braids. Her mother washes it in a basin of water before pulling it back, putting on clean dress with a lowcut back. Tabris distinctly remembers watching the drips of icy water as they ran down her mothers spine, sending a shiver up her back.

“Your turn now.” And Tabris nearly cries again, then, because normally her mother only makes her clean her hands and face unless she has gotten truly dirty. It feel like a punishment for not eating her dinner, grown long since cold, forgotten on the table. The water was muddy opaque and greasy feeling by the end of it, and Tabris had been very put-out, pouting while her mother cleaned up her face with a soft cloth.

“Do you want to one of your Harvestmere gifts early?” her mother asked her, and Tabris instantly perked up.

It was a new dress. Nothing special, really, but cut was in the style that the older girls wore, with gathering at the waist, its colour a brilliant light beige. Tabris was overjoyed to try it on and soon stood, shivering and delighted before the fire. “How do I look, mother?” She asked.

“Beautiful.” Said her mother. “You're only missing one thing.”

The last thing was a bit of her mother’s lip colouring, swiped on Tabris’ lips with her thumb.

Tabris’ stomach growls, and the fun seems to end. She does not remember how they came to this, but her mother is tugging her gently by the hand, leading her through the shadows of the alienage late in the evening. They avoid the drunks and the revellers, the mother places her hand over tabris’ mouth when her chattering teeth nearly alert a passerby to their presence. They have no blankets, and Tabris’ bare arms are covered in gooseflesh, her mothers fingers boney and ice cold.

They find the gate leading out of the alienage, locked at this time of night of course. Tabris has never stepped through it before and she is excited, dancing quietly in her soft shoes to try to keep the chill from seeping into her feet. “Are we leaving, mother?” she asks, and her mother shushes her, tells her to be very quiet, and leads her up to the gate.

The shem on the other side is whiskered and irritable looking, snapping at her mother to move along. She whispers something to him, something Tabris didn’t hear but she can easily imagine, in retrospect.

“Tis a cold evening, Ser Knight.” her words slip through the cold air like insects through their floorboards. “Won’t you take a little company?”

The man comes through the gate and he is a giant to Tabris, so much larger and more frightening than the Chantry Sisters. His round ears are red and half hidden beneath his hair, and Tabris remembers what her cousin had told her, that if you disobey a shem they will carve your ears to look like theirs.

She cups her hand protectively around her ear but does not look away from the human, wary of any sudden movement.

The human looks her in the eye as he advances. She imagines there is fire there, behind his flat, tiny eyes. “What a pretty dress.” He says, bending down, and Tabris stays frozen as her mother steps out of the way, putting the man between them. He reaches out his hand to cup her shivering chin, lifting her face into the light, and then begins to laugh. “Oh, but for an elf she’s not too pretty---”

The knife comes around his throat then, visible only as a brief flash as it catches the moonlight, and hot, black blood strikes Tabris’ face.

The man crumples, his face down as he chokes, so Tabris does not watch him die, only looking at her mother in confusion. A burning puddle spreads beneath him, too hot against her frozen toes, and she hisses in pain.

“Quickly, dah’len.” her mother says, and the warmth of the blood has stopped her shaking, her chattering teeth. “Stay close to me.”

The guard wore very little armor, only boots and heavy metal gauntlets. Her mother is quick to strip them from his body and press them into Tabris’ arms, before following the body onto her shoulder and forcing herself to stand. Her back his terribly bowed beneath the weight, but her pace is steady as she moves among the shadows.

By the time they reach their home Tabris is terrible cold and ill feeling and mother sets her nude before the fire with a blanket round her shoulders. Her new dress, stained black and brown, is thrown into the fire, and Tabris cries terribly while her mother cleans her face and hands. She falls asleep there on the floor, warm and hungry and miserable, but in the morning wakes to the smell of cooking meat.

_ They eat breakfast together, in her father's house, at their little table, and Tabris does not notice the smell of blood. _

She wakes and knows immediately that it is the middle of the night. A hand is wrapped loosely around hers, and Krems snores are absent, replaced instead by gentle huffing breathes against her shoulder.

Sten is there, asleep, head cradled in the crooks of his arms. She thinks that he must not have done this many times-- there is surely a lavish, qunari-sized rooms with qunari-sized guards waiting somewhere in the castle for him. 

She squeezes the fingers in her palm and his own dont twitch. He was always a heavy sleeper. 

Her stomach growls and she knows, then, what had brought that particular dream to her. How long has it been since she's eaten? How many days and nights? She must have eaten and forgotten, by now, but exhaustion gnaws at her mind and makes her thoughts float just out of grasp.

She squeezes his fingers a few more times, then trails her overlong nails gently along the palm, until he twitches away with a start. He blinks, and for a few moments there is fear in his eyes, but when he takes her in fully the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Kadan.” he says, like it is the only name she has ever had. “Have you been awake long?”

“Hours and hours.” Tabris says, and Stens almost-smile grows. “I'm hungry.”

Sten looks to the door and heavy footsteps move away from them, into the dark. While they wait Sten catches her up on the news. The qun has allied with the Inquisition and their treaty is ‘more than fair’. Sten had always intended to be positioned here with her, so staying at her bedside while she heals will not negatively affect his duties as advisor. “I had thought I may accompany the Inquisitor during his missions, but I believe the Ben-Hassrath has the Inquisitors protection well in hand.”

There is a wry look in his eyes, and Tabris knows they havent hid their relationship from him. He was always eagle eyed about those sorts of things-- part of his duties as a Sten was to observe and learn from the southerners, after all. 

The food that comes is a thin, sweet porridge, and though Tabris can sit up without help holding the thick wooden spoon is a struggle for her. Sten does not offer to do it for her and Tabris knows that she is welcome to do so, but she struggles on alone. She can not close the thickened skin of her hand tightly enough to hold it and it slips from her fingers multiple times. Sten laughs under his breathe at her curses.

“Is it so terrible?” he asks, when she gets enough past her teeth to sour her face. “My own healer likely made it.”

“Needs cinnamon.” she grumbles, and forces more down. After a few more miserable gulps she shakes her head. “I would prefer meat, anyways.”

“Your stomach is too small for meat right now.”

“A small bit of meat, then.”

He looks away and soon she has it, dried and smoked meat wrapped in a napkin. Barely more than a mouthful, and so she nibbles at the corner to make it last. Rams meat, no doubt, the most abundant meat in the area and not at all what shes craving.

Her mouth is still dry but she swallows thickly anyways, remembering cold winter nights and the smell of meat on the fire. That time, when she was 6 or so, was not the last time her mother filled their bellies that way. She knows that it was wrong, but Tabris could not deny that, skinny as she was, she grew up with harder bones, wider shoulders and more leg than any other girl in her alienage. Twice more they had done it together, once did Tabris try herself, though at fourteen she was easily bested by the guard and had to run into the night, embarrassed and hungry, with only nasty laughter following her.

“How does it taste?” Sten asks her.

“Perfect.” she lies. She can only take a few more tiny bites before her stomach revolts, and the chamberpot appears.

Vomiting hurt terribly, even with an empty stomach.

Sten does not normally have the kindness not to say ‘i told you so’, but this time he holds his tongue, and Tabris is grateful.

She eats the rest of her porridge without complaint this time, and when the sun rises and the morning healer comes in she is still awake. 

They tell her that she is strong, that she is healing, a fighter, and Tabris accepts the praise. By midday she is asleep again, but Sten is gone by then and there is no other reason to stay awake.


	5. Chapter 5

She spends about as much time awake as asleep these days. Its a marked improvement, and soon she is subjected to guests. Most of them do not cringe away from the bandaging and scars, so she knows they must have come to see her before and been prepared. No one has yet brought her a mirror but in the dim reflection of The Iron Bulls buckle she can make out a monster in red and white. She doesn’t look any closer.

“They wanted to bleed you.” He tells her, and she shudders at the idea. “Humorism is all the rage around here- Stitches threw the entire vat of leeches into the fire and now he has an enemy for life.”

“My hero.” 

On her third ‘good day’ she learns that the background smell of the healers tower, the brackish,, herby odor she had attributed to the worse off patience on the lower floors, is actually coming from herself. Its a nasty realization, when the healer peels away her bandages, to see that they have been stuffed full of a black paste, half dried out from the heat of her skin, half moist from her sweat. 

They tell her it was to help reduce the swelling and colour, that her wounds had been terribly swollen when she arrived, but the pain of the removal and the hot, damp smell has her screaming and shouting until the human woman is ushered away by the qunari that is stationed at her door. 

A qunari healer comes instead, and he is not gentle with her but she finds it much easier to grit her teeth and bear the pain as he washes the paste from her skin with a frigid wet cloth. Pain is proof that she is still alive, has more fight left in her, and she will not let herself regret that. He seems to understand this and treats her efficiently and without doubting her ability to handle it. They wrap her in so much gauze that she feels stiff as an old corpse, but something about the pressure relieves the pain and more good days follow.

Lavellan returns and sits at her bedside, teaching her a simple game with rocks that is apparently popular with the dalish. He beats her twice, and when she concentrates she loses track of her pain entirely. He lets her win the third time and she is fairly certain she earned her win in the fourth round, but can’t be sure.

“Lets go again.” She says.

“This always happens-- I show someone the game and then never win again.” Lavellan laughs but sets the stones up again with a smile. “Strategy has never been my strong suit. I’m lucky to have my advisors or the Inquisition would have fallen months ago, having accomplished nothing.”

“I'm more Good Luck and Good Judge of Character than strategic, myself.” Tabris admits, looking hard at the pebbles and then Lavellan before making her first move. “Surrounding yourself with people whose opinion you trust is… good.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes.” She loses a stone and moves the next one, intent. “Leliana, Sten and Morrigan. Balancing their strengths and weaknesses, trusting their intuition. Trusting myself to make the final decision and live with the consequences.”

“Well I've got two out of three at my side, now.” he smiled, taking his turn and laughing when Tabris stole his stone. “But wait-What about Alistair?”

“He was more… moral support.”

Tabris wins the game and practices it on Krem until she is sick of it. Their wins and losses are roughly even, but Krem always manages to pull just ahead.

He is a terribly smug winner, and if not for their long friendship she would probably smack the smirk off his face. “Its because you sleep better than I do.” she decides. “How can I think clearly when I can’t sleep, and how can i sleep when I spend all my time in bed?”

There are attempts to remove her from the bed, once she has been deemed well enough to not need constant looking after. The problem, though, is her leg. While before it had been lopped off neatly above the ankle with most of the support for her dragons foot coming from steel wrappings around the knee, the fire and subsequent heat melted it into he flesh. They had to take off more of her leg, up to the mid thigh, and it was a messier job than the first one had been. While the loss of her foot had never much troubled her, the knee was apparently too much, what was left of the leg prone to sudden flaring pains. While Tabris could endure these lying down or sitting, the first attempts to give her a crutch to lean on sent her sprawling. 

There is talk of taking more off now that is has healed badly but Tabris refuses.

Her personal invitation to the ball at Halamshiral just further pressure to perform. Multiple times she tries, either leaning on Sten or his attendants, once even holding Iron Bulls hands, but each time it is the same. Only the qunari truly believe in her, dont look half afraid that she will fall apart, but as time goes on their expectations seem to wane into resignation. They begin offering to take her out of the medical ward themselves, so she can recover with more privacy in Stens room, or even Bulls above the bar, where she can easily be found by those that want to see her. They tell her there is no shame in an injury, in needing help, in treating her body kindly.

She hates it, and does not accept it for herself.

“No one would think less of you, Kadan.” Sten told her, to which she immediately scoffed. “You are the Hero of Fereldan. Just surviving at all is being considered a miracle amongst the Andrastens.”

“And what better way to take the stars from their eyes than to see me carried around like a child? They would lose respect for me.”

“The people of Fereldan don’t respect you-- they love you. It would not lose you that.”

Its a distant feeling, and though Tabris has learned to accept herself as the person she once was, rather than only the one she has become, that person seems separate from the one in the bed. That person is one she doesnt feel like she knows yet, and is unwilling to accept. “Just a few more days and I’ll walk out of here on my own two feet.”

It isn’t possible, though, try as she might. Even with a newly built leg (disappointingly normal in shape, though its makings is superb) she can not stay upright long enough to let her leave the medical tower, let alone go to Halamshiral. She sends a note to Lavellan’s political advisor, Josephine, asking her to decline the invitation for her. 

Apparently it is intercepted, though, by who Tabris doesnt know, because there is a sudden influx of mage visitors to her bedside, none of which she has ever met before. Its always a brief meeting, an introduction, thanks for whatever they have heard she had done during the Blight, and then an attempt to use healing energy on her leg.

They dont work-- of course they dont, because none of them are trained healers. The trained ones have already done their part, but the buzzy hum of energy is soothing as it travels up the bone, calming tightened muscles she had otherwise grown used to.

None of them help the pain permanently, but the number of faces that now have names make the idea of leaving her bed less dreadful than she had been willing to admit.

In the end it is not a mage that comes up with a solution, but the horsemaster.

When Tabris initially hears this she imagines a saddle being strapped to someone's shoulders and pulls a face, pretending to be offended by her own idea, but the realty is much more elegant.

She thinks, when he first brings it up the stairs, that it is a wheelbarrow, but when the light catches it correctly it is clearly a simple wooden chair with great wheels at the side. There are handles at the back and a foot rest on the bottom, and someone has etched the symbol of the grey wardens into the back. 

Tabris has never seen any such thing before and she has to bite down on her lip to keep from tearing up.

“Its nothing fancy.” Says Master Dennet, and he is looking away, giving her time to process it. “And I didnt invent the idea. But if you wanna go to that ball, we’ll call this a working prototype.”

When Sten lifts her out of the bed and places her into the chair she isnt embarrassed at all. 

Its a wonderful chair. 

Not perfect, by any means. The improvements start at lining it with pillows and will later go on to include additional smaller wheels at the front and back to help it keep its balance. Eventually she will get a version of it that she can move herself, and a lightweight one that can more easily handle stairs.

But the first time around the castle, pushed steadily by one of Stens retainers while Sten himself walks beside her, love and pride obvious in his eyes, is the moment when Tabris knows for certain that she will be okay.


End file.
